A break from California-style to talk about James Gandolfini

Yesterday I was walking to CorePower for a class when, randomly, a tv at a salon next to the studio caught my eye.  I saw the words "James Gandolfini."  I don't know why I bothered to stop--I knew it was CNN, but...who cares, really? But I did stop, and saw the word "Dead" after his name.

I gasped.  Audibly.  I'm sure the woman walking behind me thought I was crazy.

James Gandolfini. Fifty-one years old, chilling in Italy with his son, going about his daily business, and then, dead. Just like that.

Just like that.  It can happen.  And, more importantly, it can happen to someone like James Gandolfini, who, though I only knew him as Tony Soprano, came across as vaguely immortal.  He was like the anti-star.  He hated speaking to the media--but he still did it.  He wasn't "Hollywood sexy;" instead, he redefined sexy in his own terms....but he didn't brag about it.  He raised a family.  His brute physical appearance was softened by eyes and a smile that were completely without guile.

The writers of The Sopranos were unable to definitively kill off Tony Soprano.  Why? Because it didn't feel right.  Sure, it was the natural course of things: Tony Soprano ought to die.  We all do.  But even in a world of fiction, where anything can happen, Tony Soprano goes right on eating onion rings and we all wonder how long he keeps on eating them.  But we know he DOES go on eating them. Because he's Tony Soprano.

So, in our minds, where the lines between reality and television have blurred to invisibility, James Gandolfini's death is simply beyond understanding.  I've heard a lot today on the CNN loop, he was "larger than life."  He wasn't....that's the thing.  He was just a man.  He was like us.  And that's the problem.  Because we love to put certain people above consequence.  We create caricature mob bosses who are still compassionate, loving husbands and good fathers.  And when the embodiment of that caricature, who takes such good care of it, and us, dies?  It's shocking.

I'm struggling with this bit of news.  Not because I knew James Gandolfini, or even because I was some sort of die-hard Gandolfini fan.  It's because it's just so....unreal.  Except is is exactly real.

In the final episode of The Sopranos, Tony and AJ have the following exchange:

AJ: Focus on the good times.
Tony: Don't be sarcastic.
AJ: Isn't that what you said one time? Try to remember the times that were good?
Tony: I did?
AJ: Yeah.
Tony: Ah, it's true I did.

Had Tony Soprano seen his death coming, I have to believe he would have seen it as an inevitable end.  The only possible conclusion, and a closure of a life well-lived.  Maybe James Gandolfini felt that.  Maybe he learned from Tony Soprano how mortal we truly are.

Hearing of James Gandolfini's death reminded me of a poem by Jennifer Welwood that hangs on the bathroom wall of Yoga Soup, an amazing yoga studio in downtown Santa Barbara.

The Dakini Speaks

My friends, let's grow up.
Let's stop pretending we don't know the deal here.
Or if we truly haven't noticed, let's wake up and notice.
Look: everything that can be lost, will be lost.
It's simple--how could we have missed it for so long?
Let's grieve our losses fully, like ripe human beings,
But please, let's not be so shocked by them.
Let's not act so betrayed,
As though life had broken her secret promise to us.
Impermanence is life's only promise to us,
And she keeps it with ruthless impeccability.
To a child, she seems cruel, but she is only wild,
And her compassion is exquisitely precise:
Brilliantly penetrating, luminous with truth,
She strips away the unreal to show us the real.
This is the true ride--let's give ourselves to it!
Let's stop making deals for a safe passage:
There isn't one anyway, and the cost is too high.
We are not children any more.
The true human adult gives everything for what cannot be lost.
Let's dance the wild dance of no hope!


RIP, James Gandolfini.  Don't stop...

A good guy, gone too soon.

Last night I went to pick up my friend Lisa for our dinner date. As I rounded the corner onto her block, I saw police cars, lights, etc. "Uh oh," I thought. My first thought was that I hope something hadn't happened to my friend, so I texted her to let her know I was there. Tried to find a parking spot. I avoided the cop cars as much as I could, but eventually had to drive past them to park, at which point I saw the medical examiner van tucked between the cop cars.

Called Lisa to let her know that someone had died in her building. We were both sobered by this idea, her especially because it was her building. She said "I heard the ambulance but I didn't think anything of it."

An hour later she got a text from a friend: "Do you know Derek Boogaard?" Lisa texted back, "Is he dead?" Text response: Yes.

Unbelievable.

Derek Boogaard, dead at age 28, a life cut way too short. I can't believe I was at the place where it happened. I can't believe I saw some of it happening. And, I can't believe that I won't see him on the ice "enforcing" anymore. So sad--a true loss to the NHL and to all of us here in MN.

Raw raw raw

It's amazing the toll the dying can take on the living. The last few weeks I've been exhausted, crabby, out-of-sorts, and just plain sad. I couldn't put my finger on it and it's been bugging me to no end. Everything is going right in my world--I have nothing to complain about.

Except that my grandpa is dying. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few weeks ago, and while we were hoping to have several months with him, hospice has now reduced his time to weeks. And, his impending death is weighing on me in a way the deaths of my grandmothers didn't, because I know it's coming. One grandma died unexpectedly (as unexpectedly as an 83 year old dies, that is), and my other grandma died within a week of a bad fall. With neither one of them did I have the chance to think about all of the things that needed to be said. Now I have that chance. I'm taking it--I wrote my grandpa a letter saying everything that I wished I had said to my grandma and all of the things that I'm glad I get to say to him. I'm so thankful to have that chance.

My grandpa's funeral will be my 6th funeral since October. It started with my college professor, Mark, then my grandma, then two former students back-to-back, then my godfather. I have to say, I would never have expected to lose so many family members in one year--I don't have that big of a family!

It's important to remember the toll death takes on the living. It's exhausting to operate daily tasks and grieve at the same time. I forget that, even with all of the funerals I've been to over the years. I'm expecting my insomnia to start soon-- it always does. I have to remember to be patient with myself in these times...to let myself be crabby and communicate with those around me that I'm really struggling. I need to turn to my sources--my family, friends, yoga, writing, to keep me sane.

Funeral the Fourth

I went to my fourth funeral in four months tonight. Well...visitation, actually--but I sort of count them as the same thing. I actually think the wake is more important--sort of like the wedding reception being more important than the actual ceremony.

I haven't had that funeral to month ratio since my Montgomery days, and I forget sometimes how exhausting death is. This is something I need to think about as I embark on a career in mortuary science. I am still doing that, by the way! Death screws with my sleep, with my eating, with my everything. I've talked about it before, but it's how I deal with it--it's not something that is likely to change. So, when I think about making my career in the death industry, surrounding myself with grief and death and dying, I have to wonder--will I make it? Will I desensitize myself or find coping strategies that enable me to sleep at night? Or, will I NOT make it--simply drop from sheer exhaustion at some random funeral because I ignore my own physical reactions.

It's an interesting question.

Grandma, Mark, Pete, and Marissa. 93, 54, 19, 20. Grandmother, Husband, Son, Daughter.

Exhausting.

Needing to do some reevaluation

After losing yet another student yesterday morning (she succumbed to cancer after an almost 14 month long fight), I find it time to do some reflection. It doesn't hurt that it's the end of the year, too.

Here goes. Since September, the following has happened:

1. 9/20 Friend from college was killed when she was hit by a car

2. 10/6 my grandma died.

3. 10/6 I found out that my favorite college professor had passed away from cancer in June.

4. 11/8 My fairly serious car accident that involved me being transported by ambulance and left my car totaled.

5. 11/15 A good friend's 28 year old brother was found dead.

6. 11/16 A friend and colleague collapsed from a seizure in his classroom. Double whammy here--the truama of seeing him and not knowing what was wrong, combined with a nice dose of flashback from when I was a junior in high school and my English teacher died in his classroom. My friend, is, fortunately, just fine.

7. 11/29 A former student, 2009 graduate, committed suicide.

8. 12/20 A former student, 2008 graduate, died of a brain tumor.


I'm beyond sad about all of the above events--the deaths especially, but those "near misses" have also taken a toll on my day-to-day life. I feel alternately blessed and hopeless. Blessed for knowing that each of these deaths is a bright shining light on the amazing life I live...but hopeless because I can't wrap my head around a world where amazing people have to die. And, the unpredictability of it all--sitting down to think that we all could really die at any moment for any cause is consuming my thoughts. But, I can't get too focused on it because then I'm wasting away the time that I have--and that's disrespectful to the people who have died.

Also, I'm climbing very deeply into work activities and also still planning mortuary science, and a career in yoga. I'm starting to feel like I'm reaching the bottom end of a funnel, where I've had all these ideas floating around and swirling toward their conclusion, but when I get there everything is going to be jammed up and bottlenecked and confused. I have to start making longterm decisions.

What does one respond to a largely complicated yet rhetorical question?

"How are you?"

What I say:
"Good. How are you?"

What I would say if I knew the person really wanted to know:
"Shitty. In the last six weeks, my grandma died, I was in a major car accident, a friend's 28 year old brother went to bed and didn't wake up, and just when I thought it couldn't get worse because 'that's three', my colleague and "baby brother" collapsed on his classroom floor in a seizure, fracturing his skull and is out of work for God-knows-how-long. So, now, I have to go buy a stupid new car, which I don't want because I can't afford one, nevermind that my insurance is going to go up for that new car, and my adjustors are all concerned that I don't spend money out of pocket for a stamp, but can't help the thousands of dollars I'll be out because some asshole apparently thought I was a ghost car that he could turn through, OR, like in so many other aspects of my life, I was completely invisible and he didn't see me at all. I'm also in intense physical pain following any activity other than laying down, can't turn my neck to a respectable (or safe) distance, and can't do yoga. Not only can't I do yoga, I also can't teach it, which is more money I'm out for however long, and just when I should be picking up more classes, I'm fighting to keep the ones I have. And I miss my yoga, which was my stress relief. So now, at possibly the most stressful environment I've ever been in in my life, I have no outlet.

That response seems to be just a tad too lengthy for someone who just shouts out the "how are you" in passing in the hallway. But, I don't have the energy to lie and say "Good." And I don't really care how anyone else is right now. I'm in no shape to help out anyone but me. I'm waking around in this dream state--that place where everyone seems like they're talking really loudly but they're probably not, and it's all kind of fuzzy anyway? So what I do is just stare at them and try to form an appropriate answer, but by the time I have one, they're gone without hearing me because they never really wanted to know in the first place.

So, don't ask me how I am, please...just refer to the above.

Ohhhhh, ohhhh I'm still alive...like Pearl Jam

So, I've had a lot of death going on this week. Well...not really this week so much as yesterday. I got the double whammy yesterday when I lost two people who mattered to me. The first, my grandma, passed away at about 2:30am Tuesday morning. We'd expected it, but only since Saturday. At some point I'll talk about my experience with "saying goodbye" and "giving permission" to die...but that's not this post.

The second person actually died back in June, but I didn't find out until yesterday afternoon. Already raw from my Gram's death, when I opened the casual email from the St. Olaf education department asking for my deets so they could update their database and read their announcement of "oh, by the way, Mark Schelske died", all I could do was drop my jaw and stare at the screen. Again, at some point I'll talk about Mark and what he meant to me personally and professionally, but this is not that post.

Whenever someone dies, I become an insomniac. And not a tired insomniac, but a fully energized, no concept of time insomniac. Last night when I cracked open a diet coke and sat down to read and waste time on Facebook, it didn't even occur to me to look at the clock until the Golden Girls was over and Cheers had begun. It was 1am.

It's like I want to take over the living for those who have died. Or, like I suddenly get a shot of the reality of how little time we actually have on this Earth. Sleeping isn't a waste of time, of course, but when it's compared to death, well, I guess I feel like doing anything is better than sleeping or dying. And I wonder if the two are so connected in my head that, especially when I'm presented with death smack-dab in the face as I was yesterday, maybe I kind of feel like if I go to sleep I'm dying a little as I go.

Either way, I'm not happy to have lost two people I care about. And I'm not happy to not be sleeping (even though it's more or less my choice--I probably *could* sleep if I, you know, went to bed). So, right now, this girl isn't happy.

RIP, Mr. Michael Jackson

Is there anything that demonstrates the importance of funerals more than today?

For the last 15 years, Michael Jackson has been the butt of jokes, the source of an endless list of derogatory nicknames, and the subject of more insulting words than anyone else not convicted of terroristic threats on the United States. He has been accused of unimaginable crimes, and though he was acquitted in a court of law, he was convicted and condemned by the media and a public that is quick to judge and long to forgive.

With his death a few weeks ago, the world came to something of a standstill and divided itself into three camps: "I Love Michael", "I Hate Michael" and "I Don't Give a Shit About Michael, Get Back to the News." The "I Don't Give a Shit" folks have gone about their business with little more than a sigh and a shake of the head when MJ is mentioned, his song is played...again...on the radio, or an argument between the first two groups takes place. The conflict between the Lovers and Haters has been something of a...spectacle. So to speak.

I'm fascinated by Michael Jackson. Absolutely fascinated. I loved him when I was young, wondered about him when I was a teenager, and he fell off my radar through most of my twenties...except for the occasional tune where I would remember my youth fondly and think "man, he's one hell of a musician." And yeah, I heard the bad stuff too. The allegations, the bizarre behaviors...and of course I saw his face, right? But what a fascinating, unique, tragic, gifted man. There has never been, nor will there ever be, another soul like him in the universe.

Michael Jackson is (was) a walking, talking representation of the ugliest parts of our society. Who cares if you're brilliant? If you changed the face of music? If you singlehandedly broke a color barrier stronger and higher than the Berlin Wall? If you sacrificed your childhood, your very life, to provide music and joy to the world? And yes, you got paid...but not nearly what it cost. We hear that you slept in bed with a boy. Villian. Nevermind that you never had a childhood. Nevermind that you were famous, almost literally, from the moment of your birth until the moment of your death, and the psychological ramifications of that. Nevermind that the people who accused him of molesting their children decided to take a cash settlement instead of seeking "justice"--how much is your kid worth? I'm not saying he didn't do anything wrong--maybe he did. Maybe he molested kids all over the place. But, if he did, well, he certainly left the world far more than most other child molesters do.

Back to the funeral, though, and the importance of memorializing our dead. What an opportunity. Did you know that Magic Johnson ate fried chicken with Michael Jackson? There is nothing more beautiful, most poetic, than laughter of joy at a funeral. All of the memories that were shared brought the world back to the "old" Michael--the Michael we all fell in love with, who changed our world, and who disappeared (or got stuffed away) behind a freakish mask of solitude as the world decided they didn't need him anymore. The fact that SO MANY musicians and other celebrities came out to share their memories of Michael Jackson, to laugh and cry together, and that somehow his daughter, Paris, still managed to see enough of the real man in her father to be simply devastated... well, that speaks far louder to me than an accusation from over a decade ago. And was it a spectacle? Of course. He's always been a spectacle; we made him that way, and we wouldn't have it any differently.

The Haters--they can go ahead and hate. The Lovers know that Michael is okay with that--he always has been.

In flight? Not this girl.

Of course I, along with a lot of other people, have followed the flight of Air France 447. This morning I came across an article about the fear of flying. I read it because I am always--and by always I mean just that--looking for ways to overcome my fear of flying.

The article says, "And news of accidents, such as the presumable crash of Air France Flight 447 over the Atlantic Ocean on Sunday, have restimulated this fear in a lot of otherwise rational people who know that driving a car is statistically far riskier." And it was there that they lost me. Because anyone who fears flying knows that the statistics have nothing to do with anything. What's my response when people say "Well, you know it's safer to fly than to drive" or "You're safer in the air than in a car" or any other variation of that idea?

Car crashes are survivable.

And it isn't enough to say "thousands of flights happen every day with no incidents whatsoever!", because anyone who fears flying knows that crashes don't need to happen every day. It only needs to happen once. It's enough that it's possible. Tell the 228 passengers of Flight 447 that flying is safe because crashes are rare.

And do I regret the opportunities I've missed--and will miss--because I don't fly? Yes. And I hope that someday I can get on a plane and not envision myself plummeting 30,000 feet to a death that combines drowning, burning, and a crash all in one trifecta of horror. But, let me tell you, crashes like Flight 447 do not make me feel better.

It's good to say goodbye

So, over the last eighteen months or so, I've met a lot of really incredible people. People who make me feel good when I'm with them. People who have taught me great lessons and who have allowed me to teach them. People who I want to "fast track" friendships because they're just so damn awesome.

But, just as these people come into my life, they also leave again. And though I am so thankful for the impact that these new friends have, I'm also so sad when they leave my life again that it's almost unbearable at points. And I know that I need to learn to appreciate these friends for whatever their role is in my life--think reason, season, or lifetime--and that not everyone will be a lifetime friend.

It makes me wonder, though...with all of the social networks--Facebook, Myspace, etc.--how will we ever learn to say goodbye to people? Ultimately, it's healthy for us to have to say goodbye. Because, eventually, we will all say goodbye for one last time to everyone we know. Sometimes we'll be lucky enough to know it, but most of the time we are blissfully unaware of the "last time" we say goodbye. Teenagers who have grown up in the Facebook culture never lose touch with anyone. They have thousands of "friends". They don't have that opportunity people my age and older have had to take a ten year break from their high school friends before showing up, new and improved, at a reunion. They lose that feeling of "I won't see these people ever again...but that's okay."

I'm concerned about how the future will grieve. Americans never have to give up anything, except to death. We all find a way around it. Lose your job? Collect unemployment. Lose your house? Move in with the parents. Move away from everyone you know? Facebook! Myspace! Email! Best friend alive one day and dead the next? Um...oh. Yeah, there's nothing to appease that. And all of the "little deaths" that we've managed to shut out of our lives--saying goodbye to friends, moving away from home, whatever it is--are necessary to living a healthy life. We need to learn to grieve on a small scale in order to adjust to how grief feels. In order to realize that grief hurts--loss hurts--and though there is no way to make it go away, the feelings will eventually change.

Several of my new friends who have faded back out of my life are my friends on Facebook. And my heart says "yay! They're still there! We're still connected! I didn't lose anything!" But my brain is sending out warning signals: learn to grieve. Remember that loss is a part of life. Appreciate what you have while you have it, and when it's gone understand that that space is now available for something new.

It's good to say goodbye. We will all have to--no matter how entitled we feel, that won't change.

Tonight I shall watch 'The Witches of Eastwick'

John Updike died today. While I'm not a cult-follower of his work, you've gotta respect a guy who won two Pulitzers. Plus, like, a billion other writing awards. And he still died relatively young. RIP, Mr. Updike.

How the time drags on and on...

I went to the vet today to pay for Simon's "arrangements" and pick up a mold of his paws and some of his fur that they collected from me. First of all, I have to say that the vets at South Hyland Pet Hospital in Bloomington are the nicest vets I've ever encountered in my life. The vet (who called me and didn't mind waiting while I cried so hard I couldn't talk and who sat with me while I said my goodbyes to Simon and took our picture) was standing nearby when I came in today. She came over and asked me how I was doing, and gave me some advice on how to help Favre get over the loss of his "cage mate." She was very concerned, and everyone there was so kind both on Friday when I was there and today.

I wanted to put Simon's birth and death dates on his paw mold...and I realized that I really didn't know exactly when he was born. I was figuring around the summer of 2000, since I knew I didn't have him in my first Northfield apartment but I did in my second, which I moved into in the summer of 2000. I don't remember *not* having him in that apartment. Turns out, I didn't get Simon until 2002. This is upsetting...first of all, a six year old chin is not old at all. Chinchillas can live to be 15-20 years old.

I wonder if there were things I did--or didn't do--that shortened his lifespan. I've been struggling a lot with the guilt that I didn't feed him as much as I should have during the three weeks he was recovering from his teeth filing. He needed to be fed by hand, and it was really time consuming, and I was frustrated that he wasn't eating his regular food like he did the last time he had them filed. I was hoping that if I fed him one syringe of food (he was supposed to get two a day) he would begin to eat his regular food too. When I brought him in, they said that even if he could recover with his teeth (which he couldn't, and I need to remember that), he had lost so much weight that his liver was compromised. I feel horrible that during the last weeks of his life he spent most of them hungry and, apparently, in pain. I can't think about that, though, or I'll drive myself crazy. He didn't die because of how I fed him...he died because of his teeth roots, which isn't anything I could control.

It all boils down to the fact that I miss him. And finding out that he was only six, when I really thought he was eight or nine years old, only makes it worse. I'm still crying all the time, but it's weird things that trigger it. Like, this morning when I was walking downstairs I saw Favre in the cage and accidently called him Simon. Tears. Seeing the syringe with little bits of Critical Care left in them from Thursday while doing the dishes. Tears.

I know it'll get better. It always does. And I'm thinking about maybe getting another chinchilla. But I don't know...I shouldn't get one...I'm not going to make any decisions for awhile.

RIP Simon, my little pet

I bought Simon at a pet store about eight years ago because I didn't have the responsibility for a dog and didn't particularly want a cat. BFF Jessie said "you should get a chinchilla--they're really cool." So I checked them out, fell in love with the little guy and took him home.

He dug his little furry self into my heart, messed around with his cage mate and produced three babies (one of whom occupies the cage with him now) and used to run to the cage door whenever I came into the room.

Simon died today. I brought him to the vet for what I thought was going to be a routine procedure and the vet called and said it was more, that Simon probably wouldn't eat again, and that if he was her chinchilla, she would put him to sleep. So I did.

I cried for hours and will do so for many days. Yeah, he was a rat. But he loved to have the little space between his neck and his ear scratched, and he loved raisins and he loved running on his wheel. So last night I gave him a raisin--I'm really glad I did--and today when he was being anesthetized I scratched his favorite spot while he went to sleep.

I left him there for "mass cremation"...I didn't know what else to do with him. They're going to give me some of his fur and an imprint of his paws. And I have pictures. I pretty much have everything but him.

Wow

Snot, of Puke and Snot, is dead.

I'm totally stunned.

I last saw their show up in Grand Marais back in...probably 2004. Over the 4th of July. They were there totally unexpectedly, and I was up there on a retreat getting a guy out of my system. I've seen them many, many times over the years, the first time being in 1990 when I was a freshman in high school.

I'm really bummed about this. Mark Sieve, Puke, says that he will continue the show, that Penn Gillette of Penn and Teller said that's what he should do, and it'll be a totally awesome way to remember Joe Kudla. I'm really glad that "the show will go on" because it should--but it won't ever be quite the same. The Renn Fest opens in three days...I hope the turnout to Sieve's first show without Kudla is enormous--a real tribute to a man who brought laughs to hundreds of thousands of people over the course of the last 35 years.

RIP, Snot.

"I may not remember what it feels like, but I sure as hell remember what it looks like!"

Estelle Getty, best known as Sophia Petrillo on The Golden Girls, passed away on July 22nd. I watch The Golden Girls generally between 2-3 times a day. It's on early in the morning and I catch it while I'm getting ready for class. It's on from 12-1am as well, and as I'm drifting off to sleep or reading, those four crazy ladies who I always thought were "elderly" (seems they're all, you know, my mom's age) are cracking me up.

Estelle Getty was one of those women akin to Gilda Radner--trailblazing women comediannes who weren't afraid of jokes, timing, and going beyond their sexuality to be funny. I wish that she had been discovered earlier and had a longer career--wish that she had not been afflicted with dementia at a young age. She and others like her paved the way for Julia Louis-Dreyfus, for Ellen Degeneres, for the women of my generation to be who they are and be funny not because they have breasts and periods, but because they're intelligent people who know the world around them.

RIP Estelle--thanks for leaving Sophia here for us.

Simple pleasures, the bad with the good, the silver lining, fate stepping in (aka my 32nd birthday)

The fates are really trying. They're gathering around, totally rallied, working together to try to outwit the badness (karma?) and make my birthday the best possible day. Here is the yin and yang that has been my first fourteen hours of 32:

+ Going out for fabulous drinks at my only official "party" which wasn't really official
-- I sometimes feel when I'm with the people that I was with that I'm a total outsider and kind of like they just let me tag along (I know all of the aforementioned people read this and we all know it's me and my brain and not you at all so don't flip out *grin*) and like I don't really know anything about books or music or any of the important things in life.
-- When I got to my car there was a glowing ticket there for $105. Thanks for the birthday gift, Hennepin County.

-- This morning I woke up crabby and hot and angry.
+ When I let Gatsby out there was a marvelous breeze that cooled me down (on all levels)

-- Had to teach summer school rather than sleeping in, and the kids talked non-stop
+ I had a great conversation with three kids and when I was walking out of school with my bag and my coffee I felt every inch of 32 in the best way possible: professional, together, needed.

+I studied for my bio quiz and felt like I knew everything there is to know about photosynthesis
-- I got a C on the bio test I took on Tuesday

+ I did not get an F on the bio test I took on Tuesday
-- I definitely failed the quiz on photosynthesis, which I had trouble seeing since I was literally wiping away my tears from the C on the test.

--I went to the vending machines between bio class and lab and realized I was 20 cents short of affording anything.
+ I dug deeply in every crevice of my purse and bag and found a quarter

-- I put all the money into the machine and found out everything in the machine is mislabled and I was five cents short. No food.
+ As the tears were threatening again 'Stay' by Lisa Loeb and the Nine Stories came on the radio. My karaoke song.

See what I mean?

My birthday has been a day of enjoying simple pleasures. It could have very, very easily have been a bad day. There was a time when I would have made it a bad day. But, the fates seem insistent that for every bad that happens there is a good right along with it, and I'm totally willing to go along with them on that. I stopped at picked up some chinese food on the way home from lab, and now I'm crashed out on the couch reading a shitload of messages from people who love me and don't mind telling me so on my special day. One of the realizations that comes with being older is realizing that a person has to pave their own way in this world, and that includes their happiness. I can dwell on the Cs and the failures and the expensive ticket, or I can be loved, eat Chinese food, pick up fresh dry cleaning, enjoy the gorgeous 78 degree, cloudless sunny day, and read the summer Tin House.

Happy birthday to me---here's to another year of learning, growing, and loving my friends and family. In the last calendar year I've met new people, some of whom are becoming very dear to me. I've also had some pretty staunch reminders that we aren't guaranteed anything but this present moment and it's important to make that moment special and surrounded by people I care about. Thirty-two years is thirty-one, -two, -three longer than a lot of other people get, so I'm incredibly thankful.

Go away! Wait, come back! Go away! Wait...

This last week was one of the most stressful I've had in a long time. I went back and read through my teaching posts to give myself some perspective. Tomorrow is Craig's funeral. The last time I went to a funeral that was held in a gymnasium it was for my own English teacher in high school. I know that I will draw significant parallels tomorrow between myself now and myself as a fifteen year old.

No doubt it's due to the events of the week, but over the last few days I've felt so unbelievably needy I almost can't stand to be with myself. I've become obsessive, paranoid, and, what's worst, I feel lonely. I almost can't be by myself. That's so damn annoying. I'm a loner--I always have been. I've savored my time alone to the point that occasionally I'll actually cancel plans with people in order to spend time with my numero uno: me. I'll turn off my phone. But now, I'm reaching out like crazy to anyone who will listen. But, my friends are the type of friends a loner person can have--they're busy people, always off doing things. So they're not really around. And that's okay, 99.9% of the time. This week, though, not so much.

It's Friday night. I'm watching the National Spelling Bee, playing games on pogo.com, and hanging with Gatsby. I plan to make popcorn later, do some math, and read my book. I need to get back to where I'm okay being in my own head. This is just very, very strange to me.

Stepping slowly back from the ledge

After a lengthy conversation with Jodi tonight, I'm simmered down. When I freak out and panic beyond all reason, I go to my single women friends who don't judge my hysteria and offer precisely the right suggestions or listening for what I need. Jodi is often the best choice for this type of conversation.

And, after the chat, a nap, a diet coke, and Hell's Kitchen, I'm more myself than I was this afternoon when I was ready to burst out of sheer irritation. I'm very lucky to have the outlets that I do, and I need to remember that things only get worse inside my head. Holding everything in all day long and pretending that I was fine only pushed me into a bad place that I couldn't get out of on my own. I'll probably wander in there several times this week as I'm reminded every day of Craig's death, but it'll be okay. It's okay to be unhappy about this whole deal.

No, no, I'm fine. Really. Thanks for asking.

I'm so incredibly pissed off today I don't even know what to do. It's the death anger, misplaced onto just about anything that moves (or doesn't move, in some cases). The type of anger that makes me not want to be in my skin because it's just all too much.

Today at school was miserable. I'm having some issues with colleagues that I can't really talk about out of professional obligation. They added to the sense of total disorientation and numbness of today. I knew it would be hard. I'm trying to remember that everyone deals with death (and with people who are dealing with a death) differently so I shouldn't be hypersensitive to my own perceived feelings. I'm trying to pretend that everything is normal, and maybe that will make it normal again.

There is so much more than Craig's death going on. So much that I wish I could talk about but I can't and won't because, well, I'm starting to think that maybe my life is becoming a bit too public and my expectations based on that set me up for failure.

I'm just in that spot that no one wants to be in---emotional discomfort. There's nothing but time that will make it better. And a change of scenery come June 6th. I can't wait for June 6th.

The second time is not okay

*Edit: May 27: Craig did not die on My 24 as I stated below, but on May 25.

In April of 2007, my blog became, briefly, the most popular blog in all of the tri-city area. And, I got into some trouble. A former student died and I wrote about it. It was the entry I wrote before (since deleted) that caused the ruckus. The night that Kyle died, I was at a wedding reception for good friends of mine. I wrote about some very un-teacherly things and then the next day wrote about Kyle, and the back-to-back entries was too much for many people. Their shock over my behavior at the party (nothing too outrageous, just not the kind of thing you want to read about the person who teaches your kid Macbeth) eclipsed the emotional message I wrote about Kyle, so I deleted the party post.

I've struggled since the night of Kyle's death knowing that at the same time he was drinking to a point that would, ultimately, lead to his death, I was also engaging in the same behavior. I was having the time of my life while Kyle was dying. I find these shared moments, times when you can match up the minute you were doing something fun while someone else was experiencing tragedy, so complex that I haven't been able to find the words to explain them. And I still can't.

While I was at Molly's party on Saturday night, my former principal and current friend, Craig, passed away from ALS. For the second time (in a row--the last major party I was at was the wedding reception) I was at a party having "the best time ever" when someone I care about left this Earth. And that, friends, really fucking sucks. I hate that now I have two memories that are exactly the same--me, drinking and carousing with friends while someone else dies. My heart is breaking for his family and for the thousands of people who were touched by him.

Craig was an absolutely amazing man. He and I had our differences, to be sure, but they were always quickly smoothed over by a beer and a Packers game, or by sharing our travel experiences. He was a beautiful pianist, a generous spirit, and a great man. Thank God he and his amazing wife, Mary, raised their two children with all of the great traits they share--his spirit will live on in all three of them.